by Maureen Ash
“Please excuse my daughter’s discourtesy in not rising, lords,” Margot said nervously, glancing at the girl as she did so. “She has not been in her right senses for a while now.”
Wilkin gave his wife an angry look, which seemed to include Severtsson. Bascot felt the undercurrents that were flowing about the room, and he was sure Hamo did, too, for the serjeant stiffened on the bench beside him.
At that moment, the boy who had opened the gate for the Templars appeared at the door, followed by a man the lad declared was “granfer” and who was, presumably, Adam, the beekeeper. His short, stocky frame was topped by tightly curled wiry hair the colour of the honey he gleaned from his bees. His beard was darker in hue and spread wide and thick across his chest. He was clothed all in brown and wore gloves, which he hastily removed as he entered the room and bowed his head to his two visitors.
“I am sorry to have made you wait, lords,” he said. “The bees will be swarmin’ soon, and I had needs to tell them I was leavin’ their presence so they will stay near the hives ’til I return.”
Bascot remembered that Preceptor d’Arderon had mentioned the beekeeper was a little odd, so he paid Adam’s strange statement no mind and told him, and his daughter and her husband, why he and Hamo had come.
Adam’s response to the revelation that poison had been put in the honey from his apiary was anger. “ ’Tweren’t no poison in the honey when ’twas put into the pots,” he declared stoutly. “My bees wouldn’t stand fer it, and neither would I. ’Twas pure and clear when it was stopped up and sealed, lords.”
Again Bascot ignored the beekeeper’s peculiar reference to his bees and said, “The honey that was poisoned was of the finest grade which is, I believe, put in pots that are glazed in a bright amber shade. Were any of those type of pots left unattended before they were either sold or collected by Severtsson?”
“After all the pots be poured and stoppered, we keeps ’em in a shed until it be time for the fair,” Adam replied. “The ones for the bailiff was along with them. They was only there for a day or two before he came and collected them and then the rest was taken to town.”
“Was the shed kept locked while the honey pots were in there?”
Adam looked at him in amazement. “No, lord. There b’aint no need. Even if someone was of a mind to steal some, the bees wouldn’t let any but us ’uns near their honey. ’Twould be right dangerous for any who tried to pilfer it.”
Seeing Bascot’s impatience with Adam’s curious manner of speaking about his bees, Wilkin hastened to justify the beekeeper’s claim. “We have two dogs here, lord, and both of them keep a good guard. If anyone tried to come onto the property, they would soon alert us. They made no disturbance while the honey was in the shed.”
Bascot nodded his thanks to the potter for the clarity of his reply and said to the beekeeper, “Did you take the honey to the autumn fair yourself last year?”
“No, I never does,” Adam replied. “I hasn’t been in Lincoln for nigh on ten years. Wilkin allus takes it, and Margot goes along to keep the tally.”
Bascot turned his attention to the potter. “After you left here to go to the fair, was the honey left unattended by either you or your wife for any length of time?”
“No, lord,” Wilkin replied. “We did deliver some to the Priory of All Saints, but Margot stayed with the wain all the time that I unloaded the honey and took it inside.
Then we went straight to the fairgrounds and my wife set up our stall.”
“And when did you take the order to the castle, before or after the fair?”
“Before, lord. I took them while Margot was setting up the stall. One of us was with the pots all the time until they were either delivered or sold.”
Bascot then asked the potter if he made all the containers that were used for the apiary’s honey.
“Aye, lord, I do,” was the response.
“And where are the pots kept after you have fired them and before they are filled?” Bascot asked, trying to determine if there could be a chance that the poison had been placed in the adulterated jars before the honey was poured in.
“In the same shed as they’re kept in after they have been filled and stoppered,” Wilkin told him.
“You told me your dogs gave no alarm of any intruder while the filled pots were in the shed. Was there any alert from them before that, while it contained only the empty ones?”
Both Adam and Wilkin shook their heads. Unless the beekeeper or one of his family was guilty, it seemed unlikely that any of the honey had been adulterated before it left the apiary, or while it was in transit. To be sure, he asked them if the honey was overseen at all times once it had been harvested from the combs and poured into the pots.
“The best grade is,” Adam said. “That be the one we gets from the first gleanin’. It be ready right away, so after we pours it into honey bags it goes straight from the bags into the jars. Then we leaves the bags to drip overnight on their own before wringin’ ’em out for the second gleanin’ and then we washes ’em out with water for the third.”
Bascot nodded absently. He was only interested in the best grade, for it was the type that had been poisoned, and it appeared that it could not have been tampered with while under the beekeeper’s care. The second grade, which was cheaper and usually purchased by people with lesser means, was of no interest to him, and neither was the last type, which was very thin and used mainly to make mead. He resumed his questioning of the potter and the vessels he made.
“Do you make any of the amber-glazed honey pots for another apiary’s use?” he asked.
“No, lord,” Wilkin told him. “I fashion many other vessels that I sell in Lincoln town, but not that kind.”
“I understand it is the practice for the pots, once they have been emptied by your customers, to be returned to the apiary so they can be reused. Are you the one that collects them?”
“Yes, but I only take back those that are not chipped or broken,” Wilkin explained. “We pay the customers a fourthing of a penny for each. I collect the empty pots once a year, in the late summer, so as to have ’em ready for the next harvest.”
So, Bascot thought, all of the empty pots of the type that had been used by the poisoner were still sitting in the castle shed awaiting collection. The same would probably be true in Reinbald’s home; his cook would put them in an out-of-the-way place until the potter arrived to take them away. It would be a simple matter to steal one. A missing pot would not be noticed until Wilkin went to collect it and would even then be thought to have been discarded because it was damaged.
Since it seemed that the honey had not been tampered with while it was on the apiary property-or while it was in Severtsson’s possession-it was likely that the adulteration of the honey had been carried out recently, as had been suspected. Nonetheless, he asked Adam how many pots of that grade had been gleaned last year and if the beekeeper knew who had bought them.
“ ’Twere two score and four pots altogether,” Adam replied. “I don’t know who bought ’em, but Margot does, she keeps the tally sticks for to show the bailiff.”
“A score went to the castle, lord,” the beekeeper’s daughter replied. “Then there were the eight given to Master Severtsson for his uncle, six that went to the priory and t’other ten were sold in ones and twos to customers in the town. I don’t know the names of the people that had those; I never goes to town except to sell the honey, and I only know their faces, not who they are.”
Bascot was relieved to hear that the remainder of the pots had been sold in small quantities throughout the town. It was likely that all of these had been opened and used throughout the winter months, and since no suspicious deaths had been reported during that time, all of that honey must have been pure. Deciding there was nothing further to be learned from Adam and his family, Bascot signalled to Hamo that he was ready to leave.
As they went towards the door of the cot, the bailiff, who was a little ahead of Bascot, hesitated and glan
ced at Rosamunde. The young woman was still sitting as she had been during the whole time they had been there, staring vacantly at the empty space in front of her, and made no sign of having noticed his, or anyone else’s, presence. Despite that, Wilkin quickly stepped into the space between the bailiff and his daughter in a protective manner and glared at Severtsson. Margot watched her husband’s defiant movement with an anxious face, her lips pressed tight together as though to stop her from crying out in alarm. The bailiff gave them both a disdainful stare and then, with a petulant shrug of his shoulders, turned and left the room.
Severtsson parted company with the two Templars at the junction of the apiary road with the main track, his journey back to Wragby taking him in the opposite direction to their own. As they watched his retreating figure disappear down the road, Bascot said to Hamo, “All is not well between the potter and the bailiff, and it would seem to have some connection with Wilkin’s daughter, Rosamunde.”
Hamo was alert at once, ever conscious of any wrongdoing which might impugn the integrity of the Order. “Severtsson said the girl was unmarried,” he observed. “Perhaps he is the father of her babe. If that is so, the preceptor must be told. The Order frowns on moral laxity among its lay servants.”
“We will do so when we return to Lincoln. But, Hamo, both the potter and the bailiff are connected to the mystery of these poisonings, although only by tenuous threads-Wilkin because he is one of those who oversee the preparation of the honey and undertakes its delivery; and Severtsson because one of the jars that he took to his uncle’s house was adulterated. Is it possible that the enmity between the two is somehow involved in the matter?”
Ten
The poisoner found it difficult to maintain his facade of innocence during the turmoil that followed the deaths of le Breve and his family. His anger had almost overwhelmed him, and it still burned in his gut like molten iron in the depths of a blacksmith’s forge. After all the risks he had taken, it had happened again, just as it had with Nicolaa de la Haye, and instead of the lives of Reinbald and his family being taken, it had been people of no consequence who had died.
He recalled how, for one heart-stopping moment, he had thought himself discovered and had made preparations to flee if the hue and cry was raised for his capture. But, as the hours passed, and his alarm proved groundless, he knew that he could resume his quest for vengeance without fear of hindrance.
He would need to wait before he made another attempt to poison either the castellan or the merchant.
Counselling himself to patience, he took comfort from the thought that since the finger of suspicion had not been pointed in his direction, there would be no obstacle to his entering the premises of his next victim.
Eleven
The morning was not far advanced when Bascot and Hamo returned to Lincoln. D’Arderon was waiting for them, and Bascot told him briefly of their visit to the apiary and of his suspicion that there was something amiss between the bailiff and the potter.
The preceptor shook his head in distaste. “Whether their rancour has any connection to the poisonings or not, if Severtsson has been involved with this young woman, perhaps even responsible for the babe she bore out of wedlock, I cannot let him continue as a servant of the Order. It would be tantamount to blasphemy to do so.” He looked at Bascot with weary eyes. “Unpleasant as it may be, I must learn the truth of the matter, de Marins. The decision to appoint him as bailiff was mine. If he is immoral, I should have discovered his inclinations before giving him the post.”
Hamo nodded his head in confirmation of the preceptor’s statement, and Bascot knew the depth of concern they both felt. Not only must the brothers of the Templar Order be morally above reproach, but also any servants they employed. As preceptor of the Lincoln enclave, the responsibility for ensuring this was so fell on d’Arderon’s shoulders.
“I shall let you know if I discover anything about the girl and Severtsson that might be relevant, Preceptor,” Bascot promised.
After Bascot had ridden out of the enclave he returned immediately to the castle and sought out Ernulf. The serjeant had been in service to the Hayes for many years and was familiar with most of the people who lived and worked in the town. Although Ivor Severtsson did not reside in Lincoln, his uncle did and was a well-known figure among the populace. It might be possible that Ernulf had heard some gossip that was pertinent to the merchant’s nephew.
He found Ernulf in the barracks, having just returned after a spell of duty on the walls. “There’s a lot of unrest over these murders in the town,” he told Bascot. “Had to send a few of my men to help Roget, so I’ve been doing some of the rounds myself.”
The Templar told him of his visit to the apiary and of the ill will that the potter seemed to bear Ivor Severtsson. “I need to find out what the cause is, Ernulf,” Bascot said. “It may be no more than the usual resentment of a tenant towards those in authority, especially if Wilkin has been subjected to a reprimand by the bailiff for some infringement of his rights, but I have a feeling it is more than that, and somehow centred on the potter’s daughter, Rosamunde, who is the mother of a bastard child.”
“Of the people in the town I keeps close track, lest their affairs touch on the security of the castle and so upon milady,” Ernulf said regretfully. “Out in the countryside…”
He shrugged but, after giving the matter some thought, said, “I do know of one as might be able to help you. The rat catcher, Germagan, has a cousin who used to be employed as a resident catcher at Wragby. He might have some knowledge of what goes on at Nettleham, since it’s part of the same property that the old widow left to the Order. This cousin, he was at Wragby under the old bailiff, and for a little while after Severtsson took over. Came back to Lincoln town a few months ago, I think. If you was to ask Germagan, he can tell you if his cousin is plying his trade in the town, or moved elsewhere.
“Other than that,” Ernulf went on, “the best I can do for you is ask around amongst my men and a few people in the town. As far as the bailiff is concerned, I do know that Severtsson’s uncle, Reinbald, is a man of good repute. He and his wife took Ivor and a younger brother, Harald, into their home when the wife’s sister and her husband died. Reinbald has no sons, and Harald helps the merchant in his business and will probably be his heir one day. About Ivor, I know little, even though he is often in Lincoln on the Order’s business, for he spends most of his time at Wragby. But it could be Germagan’s cousin might know summat useful about him. The cousin must have plied his trade under Severtsson’s direction after the old bailiff died. He might know about any dealings he has with the apiary and if there is reason for sourness on the potter’s part.”
Bascot thanked the serjeant and said he would follow up his suggestion. Severtsson had said he went to his uncle’s house whenever he was in Lincoln, which would seem to be fairly often. Was the rancour the potter felt against the bailiff deep enough for him to have poisoned the honey sent to the merchant’s house in the hope that Severtsson would eat a dish that contained it?
But, if that was so, it did not explain why Wilkin would have placed poison in the castle kitchen. The potter had admitted he delivered the honey to the castle store last autumn at the time of the fair. Did he have any reason to be in the kitchen on subsequent occasions? And if so, did he have a grievance against someone in the castle, and a wish to harm them, as well as Severtsson? Perhaps Gosbert could give him answers to these questions.
Calling to Gianni, the Templar and the boy went out into the ward and walked over to the kitchen. It was full of its customary bustle, but now, with Gosbert in charge, the tumult seemed more orderly than it had been under Eric. The morning meal having just been served, scullions were in the process of preparing the vegetables that would be used for the midday meal. In one of the huge grates, a dozen chickens, ducks and rabbits that had been skewered on spits were roasting over the open flames. At the side of the fireplace, a young boy turned the handles of the spits at regular intervals, basti
ng the meat with grease from a pot after each rotation. A large number of loaves of bread had already been baked and were piled in neat stacks on a table. The wooden platters that had been used to carry the food to the hall for the morning meal were being scraped clean by a couple of kitchen maids and then arranged in neat piles.
Gosbert was at the gutting table, stuffing an ox heart with a mixture of onions and herbs. He looked up at Bascot’s approach and gave a respectful nod as he waited for the Templar to speak.
“I have come to ask about the potter, Wilkin, who is son-by-marriage to the beekeeper at Nettleham. I am told that he sells his wares in Lincoln town. Does he supply any of the vessels you use here, in the castle kitchen?”
Gosbert’s spiky eyebrows rose up towards his shining bald pate in surprise. “Yes, he does,” he replied.
“Has he been here recently?” Bascot asked.
“He comes here often,” Gosbert informed him. “Some of the scullions can be cack-handed if Eric or I don’t watch them close, and quite a few of the wine or oil beakers get broken. Wilkin makes good pots, and they aren’t too expensive. We usually get one or two replacements from him every week or so, and although I can’t remember exactly which days he came, it is more than likely he has been here at least once in the last sennight.”